


Shampoo, Rinse, Repeat

by ctimene



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Awkward Boners, Coming In Pants, Frottage, Hair Washing, Horny Teenagers, M/M, Mistaken Identity, That's it, okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-27 02:10:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10799499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ctimene/pseuds/ctimene
Summary: "Preparing food for one's lover is the most intimate gift of all, aside from washing their hair." — Charles BoyleNo one does any cooking in this fic, y'all.





	Shampoo, Rinse, Repeat

**Author's Note:**

> Hair-washing porn. Then actual porn. I have no idea where this one came from, I haven't had a haircut in ages.
> 
> Content note: Brief appearances of ableism. Also, I've not tagged for underage but some teenagers get boners in this fic. They're 16, there's no sexual activity, but if that's not your cup of tea, turn away now. Let me know if there's any other things I should tag for.

Matt can’t stop grinding his teeth. Sister Benedict is herding them, two by two, down the street, and Mary Sue Poots, who reads too much, keeps reciting _Madeline_ to her partner, except, well, she’s being clever again:

“They left the house at half past nine  
In two straight lines in rain or shine-  
The smallest one was Matt-eline.”

She’s nine, she has a crush, it’s _sweet_ , he tells himself. She’s at the very front, as one of the youngest on the trip, and he’s at the back, bringing up the rear, so she doesn’t know that he can hear every word. Doesn’t know that her voice is piercing. Doesn’t know that he’s having a few… _issues_ with his height, with the word straight, with _everything else_  because he’s fifteen and there’s so much anger in him he’s not sure how he’ll ever get the Devil back inside.

He clenches his fist and Emmet, who drew the short straw and has to lead him today, edges an inch closer to the kerb. Matt briefly fantasises about pushing him into traffic, before the guilt sets in.

If only Stick would come back and take him to the war. He’s ready for it now, ready to fight and hurt and be an _adult_. Not a teenager on his way to a charity haircut hearing people murmur in cafes about the orphans, so cute, and the nuns, so good to them, a hum of self-congratulation that makes his stomach churn.

His neck aches from ducking his head so much, hiding his eyes from the pity.

It’s only two blocks to the salon. Up at the front the little girls are thrilled to get their first proper haircuts. Matt can see the upside — it’ll be his first cut not over a toilet bowl for six years, since he came to St Agnes, it’ll be nice not to have bleach stinging his nose for four days. But the girls won’t stop squeaking, and Emmet’s dropped his arm even though Matt’s still yards from the shop door, and _he_ doesn’t know Matt can make it easily, and Kamal is _this close_ to running into traffic and no one is watching, for crying out loud, for heaven’s sake, _Jesus Christ_ -

He’s about to edge between Kamal and the kerb, natural-like, fumbling blind kid, _he hates it_ , when someone drops a hand on his shoulder. In the bubble of commotion that is a dozen kids and teenagers moving, he didn’t even feel it coming.

“Need a hand getting inside?” It’s no one he knows, and his shoulders tense. The crack in the guy’s voice screams teen, as does his smell — sweat and hormones and way too much deodorant, a cologne that doesn’t suit him, original Pringles and the lingering waft of tomatoes and meat that Matt’s come to recognise on his classmates as home cooking. The hand on his shoulder is warm and dry and steady as the guy’s heartbeat. Matt’d be willing to bet he’s the same age, maybe a little younger, with more weight on him and a few inches taller.

Everyone’s fucking _taller._

Matt shrugs the hand off his shoulder, too committed to his mood to be polite. “I’m fine.”

“Okay, okay, sorry about the touching, didn’t think.” The kid’s got his hands in the air, and while Matt’s still pissed at everything, it mollifies him towards this guy in particular. Just for now. And he does, really, know he’s being an asshole. It’s just easier than anything else.

He turns towards the guy, drops the helpless schtick as much as he can, as much as is safe. He can hear the bell above the door dinging, so he points his folded cane in the right direction. “That way?” he asks, and it’s as close to an apology as he’s getting.

“Yeah, lemme-” The guy holds it open for him, because apparently Matt isn’t radiating asshole hard enough. He frowns, but Sister Benedict swoops down on him, habit rustling, before he can find the most begrudging way to say thanks.

“Come along, Matthew, don’t waste time. I thought you could be first, since you don’t want to look through the magazines.”

“Right.” He can’t tell her to go to Hell.

Well, not again.

This week.

Somebody wearing lavender-scented clothes and a rose-based perfume (terrible combination, his nose itches) claps their hands flamboyantly. “Okay, Franky, can you wash Matthew’s hair, Jenny, you take- it’s Emmet, right? And Lucy, you’re with Kamal.” She says Kamal wrong, a hard a, and Matt grits his teeth.

“Hey, the sink’s over here-” Ah. The guy is Franky. What a terrible name, Matt thinks uncharitably. Belongs to a Valley girl, or a petty Italian mobster, not a chubby teenager.

He reminds himself that _Franky_ is being nice. Or doing his job. Probably the latter, but either way, Matt has no reason to be a dick. Visibly. He can be a dick inside his own head, right? The pit of guilt in his stomach disagrees.

“Okay, gown, right arm, left arm, here we go. And towel — got you a warm one, it’s freezing today, I wore like a dozen scarves just to get in. The seat’s two steps to your left, one back, go wild.” The guy’s very careful not to touch him too much which, okay, yeah, Matt’s been way too much of an asshole here. He opens his mouth, closes it again, and sits down.

“Not much with the words, are you? No problem, just let me know if the water’s not the right temperature, okay? It is, like, my one job, I would like not to screw it up. Oh, I’m gonna ask if you can take your glasses off, is that okay?”

“Uh, yeah.” He takes them off, holds them tight in his hand. He’s only got one pair. He blinks, feels his eyes roving a little, but Franky doesn’t freak — no heartbeat rise, no awkward duck of the head. It’s refreshing.

Up close, there’s a trace of something else in Franky’s smell that escapes him. It wafts, along with a slight sound he recognises as a ponytail swishing. It’s light but clear and he chases it round his head until the water starts.

It’s warm against his scalp and his neck hitches fractionally. It’s relaxing, but a shade too warm — the back of his neck heats up, pinpricks of sweat against his hairline. Hot water at St Agnes’ is a rare miracle though, so he keeps schtum. But then-

“You sure this temperature is good for you, buddy?” And before he can answer, Franky is fiddling with the taps and it drops. Not by much, not so much anyone would really notice, but- It’s perfect. The pressure picks up a bit too, just this side of drumming against his skull. His scalp seizes for a moment, then relaxes, and his mouth stretches into a smile before he can help himself.

“There we go,” Franky murmurs, and then he starts washing Matt’s hair.

Except. That’s simplifying things too much. Matt has to break down the experience, and for once it’s not to keep his senses in check, but to let them go. First, there’s the shampoo, minty and thick and expensive, he can tell, from the scent, not stark chemical but rich and zingy, and the feel of it, soft but textured, like liquid clay. He doesn’t _like_ it, per se, it’s not a comfortable emptiness, but for a few minutes it’s enough to drown in. Franky’s generous with it, a great dollop that he slowly works through Matt’s hair with his fingers.

Franky’s fingers are a whole other sensation. He keeps stretching his long fingers across Matt’s scalp, pulling at the skin just enough to send a spark down his spine. It lifts his hair long enough to feel the foam of the soap bubble against his skin, then fall back again. His shoulders drop an inch, tension oozing out of him. He feels Franky’s thumbs swipe down the curve of his head to the hollow at the base of his skull and his eyes fall shut.

“What are you getting done?” Franky asks, and Matt actually hums before realising he has to respond in words.

“Uh, short back and sides?”

“Oh my god no.” The fingers in his hair tense, press a little harder, and Matt has to bite back a groan. “You cannot do that, Matthew. That is- It’s the new millennium, we are an advanced species, spare me the short back and sides. Spare humanity the sight of it.”

Matt laughs. “Got any better ideas?”

“Literally thousands. Starting to rinse now, don’t open your eyes. Maybe JC?”

“JC?” Matt is somewhat lacking in facial hair for the full Christ.

“From NYSNC. The band? Your ears work, right?”

“Yes,” he grumps, but Franky’s fingers slide into the space behind his ears and his frown smooths out before it can really form. Then he feels his right thumb press against the back of his neck just so, and his knees judder. And, uh, something else twitches.

“So, JC, despite all you will hear about Justin, and everything they say about Lance, JC is _going places_ , man, you wouldn’t believe.”

“Mhhm.” Oh, forget twitching, he’s half hard in his jeans and the water’s not helping. A drop gets away from Franky’s careful hands and rolls down the side of Matt’s neck, over his pulse, each centimetre a shiver of sensation.

“I mean, there’s the dancing. Obviously, that might be… less appealing to you, but his voice is also the best, like Justin’s all showboating par excellence, and that could be your thing, maybe, but you seem a man of taste and refinement, so I’m gonna assume no. Conditioner going in now, by the way.”

Matt tries to listen, tries desperately, he can be engaged and interested and not a complete dick if his _actual dick_ will get with the program and calm the fuck down.

Except, Franky’s got quite a nice voice, light and happy and very focussed, like Matt’s the only person in the room. Which, he reminds himself, he is not, there are children and hairdressers and _nuns_ and none of that is arousing or sexy. His dick needs to stop. Now.

Franky digs his fingers in for a last scrub and thank God Matt’s shut his eyes, because he feels them roll back into his head. “You make a compelling case,” he manages, through gritted teeth. He sends out some more thanks — for the gown concealing his shame, for the hot water he can blame his flush on, for the fact that he’s the one who can hear blood pounding and not the other way around.

“Sure, well, it’s a hobby. You okay there?”

“Fine,” he says, too quickly, and Franky hums a disbelieving noise before he starts to rinse out the product, a gentle slosh of water that helps Matt unclench his fingers from the arms of the chair and, oh, right, that’s probably why he seemed less than convincing. “Really,” he adds, a little less like the word is being pulled out with pliers.

“No problem, buddy,” Franky murmurs, and, oh, there go the hairs on the back of Matt’s neck — should that even be possible, shouldn’t they be wet? “Up and at ‘em then,” he adds, and wraps a small, warm towel over Matt’s hair, just brushing the top of his ears. The warmth, definitely the warmth and not the touch, just a skitter of touch across the shell of his left ear, makes Matt’s cheeks pink, and if he has to lock his knees to get up, well, it’s probably not the most honourable use of his ninja training, but he fights through the swoop in his stomach.

And then his gown falls open. “Shi- crap, I mean, sorry, my fault-” Franky gabbles, already reaching to retie it Matt’s neck. Matt’s speechless, even though Franky’s stepped in front of him, there’s no chance anyone can see his problem. It’s _too much_ to process, the embarrassment, the choking of his own breath at Franky’s knuckles brushing the side of his throat. It’s fine, he tells himself. There’s no one who can see and-

Franky’s fingers slip, the gown gapes again, and Matt hears the moment he glances down. The swallow. The acceleration of his heart — not a spike, but a steady quickening, with a forcefulness that rings in Matt's ears. For Franky this must be an awkward silence stretching out. Matt wishes he was that lucky.

Franky clears his throat and ties Matt's gown together again with clumsier, slower fingers. Matt can smell that his hands are clammy, that there's another note of fresh sweat underneath that godawful cologne. He opens his mouth to say anything to break this infinite cycle of humiliation, but nothing comes to him, so he shuts his jaw again with a click.

Franky takes a breath, and when he speaks it sounds like he's spent a moment pasting on his widest fake smile. The sound of it makes Matt's fingers clench, makes him wish for a portal straight to Hell, not even a glimpse of the pearly gates. “So, you're all good, great, happy — uh” he coughs “not _happy_ , let's, um, Naomi? Matt's ready for, um-”

Naomi — lavender and rose, still an unpleasant assault on Matt's senses but all the more welcome for it — swoops in and takes Matt's arm and he doesn't even have the presence of mind to glare. “This way,” she says when she's already dragged him halfway across the room. “What were you thinking of?” she asks as she sits him in the chair, and honestly, Matt's surprised he's got a blush left in him before he realises she means for his haircut.

It takes him a few dumb seconds to remember what Franky said. “Uh, JC?”

She laughs. “Wow. Sure, okay. Franky’s idea, right? Kid is obsessed. But it'll work on you. Chin up a bit, hun, it'll be crooked if you sulk through it.”

Once Naomi’s got him just so she spends a few moments rearranging her scissors and combs, sharp, metallic noises and gestures that don't quite mask the sound of Franky, somewhere in a back room, knocking his head against some shelves and groaning. And even though her polite patter is expertly timed, it doesn't do anything to alleviate the sand that drags through Matt’s veins when he hears Franky start to _laugh_.

* * *

 

When Matt hears that laugh again, it’s under very different circumstances. Eight years, two dozen haircuts at different barbers and, oh, not a single more embarrassing moment (though there are, he’ll admit, more inadvertent boners throughout the joy that is high school) of different circumstances.

That doesn’t get around the basic similarities of the hands in his hair, the hardness in his jeans, and that laugh, closer now, meant for his ears.

But, to rewind:

Matt’s chugging beer to keep from grinding his teeth, because the campus dentist has already had a go at him once this semester. The dentist would probably also disapprove of the beer, in a general medical way, but Matt thinks he’s excused.

It’s a fucking terrible party. Someone let one of the Chets at the music, which is always a bad idea, regardless of which Chet it is. The uneven thumping bass is not helping the tempers of the hockey team, who have lost again, of course, but are still out because to the losers go shitty beer and someone’s old poppers. There’s a scent in the air, misplaced adrenaline and booze and sweat, that reminds Matt of his dad’s gym, with none of the leather or powder or goddamn adults to keep things calm.

Matt can hear Foggy playing peacemaker in the next room, calming down a couple of overgrown children ready to make like the Hulk and the Abomination and take half of the frat house with them. Matt wishes, just briefly, that Foggy would step back, let this turn into the brawl it was clearly always meant to be. Maybe he’d be able to get in a few shots, let the Devil out from where it’s scratching underneath his skin, scoring lines down his insides — but no. He knocks back his beer again, tries to will himself past his anger.

In the corner of the room, one girl starts shouting about “Kim, Kim, you _fucking bitch_ , I know you’re here, I’ll _fucking_ -” and though her friends are making the right sort of gestures, they’re also laughing, egging her on. He can hear every inane, vicious word and it’s infuriating, digging into his skull. He keeps one ear on the almost-fight next door, just in case Foggy’s in danger, needs help, but the first year of law school has shown him enough to know this is where Foggy _shines_ , a sarcastic, mouthy miracle of a man.

Then, of course, Kim walks in. Foggy’s still talking down his pair, and maybe it’s inspiration, maybe it’s foolishness, but Matt suddenly wants so much to do the right thing. So when the rest of the room tenses — when the heartbeats around him spike with excitement, anticipation, every little predator and vulture in the room desperate for a fight to break out — Matt turns his cane and pretends to blunder forward.

“You fucking _whore_ ,” the girl is screaming, breaking out of the half-hearted hold her friends have on her to lunge at Kim, drink first- only, Matt’s in the way. The drink — Malibu, vodka, coke, Matt could smell that lethal combination from across the room — gushes over his hair and down his neck, while the glass hits his forehead with a dull clunk and sends his glasses tumbling to the floor on the way down. It doesn’t hurt, not really, but he does wince, mostly for effect.

There’s a series of gasps as the sight reaches the less observant party-goers. Kim and the girl — Farheen, Matt thinks — stop dead in their tracks.

“Shit, you hit the blind guy,” truly the thickest of the room’s occupants observes. Still, it spurs a flood of apologies, drains the bared-teeth aggression from the room, and Kim hightails it out of there. So, mission accomplished. Someone even puts his glasses back on his face. Upside down, but then he’s not the miracle man.

All is uneasy calm, until: “What the fuck,” Foggy asks flatly from the doorway. Matt turns to face him and his own fringe, wet and sticky, hits him in the face, plasters against his eyebrows. “Urgh, you lot are a lost cause, we’re leaving,” Foggy adds, to no one in particular, and from what Matt can tell, everyone studiously ignores him, tamping down any guilt they might feel (debatable) with more drinks.

(The last of the guilty tension leaves the room as they do, and the partiers get back to barely-hushed arguments before they’re out of Matt’s earshot. Someone’s leaving that party with a broken nose).

Foggy reaches out for Matt and Matt tucks himself into his arm, like he has a hundred times before, and listens to Foggy narrate how everyone there was a “massive, holistic asshole” all the way back to their dormroom. Listening to Foggy’s voice — and his breathing, and his heartbeat, to the whole of him — helps take his mind off the sickly sweet smelling drink rolling down his neck, crystallizing in his hair.

Matt makes it all the way back to his dorm bed, in fact, before Foggy sways towards him, shaking his finger and not bothering to narrate it for once. “Dude, you took a drink to the face, you gotta shower.” It’s 2am and the immersion heater for the water won’t come on til 6. Matt makes a face and Foggy sighs. “At least wash your face, God knows where that girl had been- oh, wait, no, I got an idea. Stay there. If possible, slump some more.”

It’s definitely possible to slump more, and Matt does so, leaning against his comforter with his ass on the least sticky patch of carpet as Foggy moves to the floor’s kitchenette, fills and boils the kettle, and removes something large and plastic from the cupboards. He half fills it with water, then carries it back to their room and puts it on his desk chair before wrapping a towel round it. Matt’s a little confused, but Foggy’s managed to jerry-rig a popcorn maker, a cinema screen and a foot jacuzzi using simple dorm supplies before now, so he knows he just has to wait and, uh, not-see.

Foggy retrieves the kettle, and something from his wash bag, shuts the door behind him and drags his contraption over to Matt. “Right, dip your head back in here, I’m going to wash your hair, okay?”

Matt startles. “You don’t- I’m not _that_ drunk, Foggy, I can handle a shower.”

“Matty, I am _definitely_ more drunk than you are, I cast no aspersions. Or stones. Spells, maybe. Spells of healing. Spells with, uh-” he grabs for the bottle he took from the wash bag “-mint and natural oils, oh goody.” There’s a pause, when Matt really should object, but can’t quite find the words. “C’mon, this is actually something I’m good at. Unbelievable, I know, but there is one thing.”

And that’s not fair, Matt has a list of Foggy’s qualities to break out at exactly moments like this, when too much cheap beer knocks through Foggy’s towering but carefully built self esteem to press at the tender heart of him. But Matt can tell now is not the time for the list, and Foggy pours some of the kettle’s water into the washing up bowl on the chair so the steam rises and fills Matt’s ears and nose, and really, the only thing to do is take his shirt off, sit against the chair and tip back his head.

Foggy’s hands shoot into his hair so fast it almost knocks him off balance, but pretty soon he slows and smooths and they figure out a position that doesn’t put a crick in Matt’s neck. Foggy’s fingers are gentle, and the shampoo he uses comfortingly familiar, from all the secret moments Matt’s tucked in too close and turned his nose towards his roommate.

“I saw you through the doorway, you know. Playing the hero.”

“I just got in the way, Foggy,” Matt says, but his words curve round a smile that widens when Foggy slicks his fringe back with a slosh of warm water.

“Sure, buddy. They might’ve missed it, but I know you’re only blind, not deaf. You knew exactly what you were doing.” His fingers catch on a lump of sugar-clumped hair and he teases it out gently. “No good deed goes unpunished.”

Matt just hums in response, still smirking, and they let the subject — and all conversation — drop.

Foggy wasn’t lying, he really is good at this, which adds to the unjustly long list of his talents and perfections. Pretty soon Matt’s drifting on a cloud of shampoo suds and steam, with only a vague niggle at the back of his mind, a thought just out of reach. He assumes, at first, it’s his usual reservation about being this close to Foggy, the same hesitation that’s been holding him back from learning if his skin tastes like it smells, sugar and flour and violets, but even as he lets that doubt swell in his stomach and then float away again when Foggy’s fingers dig in and scrub, the sense that he’s missing something remains.

Foggy’s fingers slip down to the hollow at the base of his skull, the touch sparking all the way down his spine to the base of his dick, and Matt hisses through his teeth. “That’s- yes,” he groans, before he can help it, and his cheeks flood with warmth.

Foggy laughs. Foggy has lots of laughs — a giggle, a chortle, a loud one for bad parties and a quiet one for good movies, an incoherent, wheezing gasp when Matt really gets him — but this one is almost entirely unfamiliar, a little choked, warm but cut off, a tad nervous. Matt’s never heard it bef-

Yes, he has. He goes rigid under Foggy’s hands, the memory of that embarrassment as fresh a feeling as it was eight years ago. At least now, without all the horror of being fifteen, he’s less angry. He’s not sure he could convince himself to be angry at Foggy — _Franky_ , that’s going to be fun at the Nelsons’ next Christmas — anyway, especially not when Foggy’s asking if he’s okay:

“Shit, Matt, what’s wrong, did I get soap in your eyes or-”

“No, it’s-” Matt takes a steadying breath but he can’t make himself relax. Shame feels colder than anger, and twice as strong. “You’ve done this before.”

“Yeah, summer job when I was sixte- oh. _Oh_. You remember that?!”

“ _You_ remember that?”

Foggy shrugs. “Kinda. I just shrugged. I mean, yeah. I sorta recognised you.”

Matt swallows, takes a sharp breath in through his nose, and unclenches his fist where it's a tight ball against his thigh. “When?”

“The first day?”

So this is hell. Much more carpeting than Matt was expecting, fewer red hot pokers, but the sensation of falling, forever, into an abyss? He got that spot on.

“You had the same haircut, Matty! The guy from NSYNC.” Foggy’s stopped washing his hair now, is gesticulating with his damp fingers and flicking droplets of soapy water onto Matt’s chest, his jeans, across his face.

 _JC_ , Matt mouths, each singular detail of that memory as clear as a needle in his skin, but he doesn’t have the voice to say the letters, so Foggy blusters on:

“But you didn’t recognise me, obviously, and it seemed super creepy to be all, hey, I remember reading about your accident AND one time I washed your hair and got teased about it for a whole summer by my aunt Naomi, so. I just. Didn’t? Wasn’t expecting you to go all total recall on me, by the way.”

“That’s not what _Total Recall_ was about,” Matt mutters, because his brain is blankly refusing to process the rest of what Foggy’s said, and his dad was an Arnie fan, so it’s one of the few movies he can remember _seeing_.

Then the rest of Foggy’s words start to _make sense_ and also no sense at the same time. Matt tries to sit up and almost upends the tub, sends a cascade of water down his back. Foggy swears and scrambles backwards, but before he can get out of range Matt shoots an arm forward, gets a grip in the front of Foggy’s shirt with unerring aim. “ _You_ were teased? Because I-” Remembering that laugh is like reliving it, and maybe he’s a little angry, because maybe Foggy’s been laughing at him still, laughing all along at horny little Matt and-

“What? Oh! No. Matt, that- that happens. Like, not all the time, but enough that- you shouldn’t feel- I mean, I get it, I really get it, because, like, me too, and that is _definitely not_ supposed to happen, but you shouldn’t-”

“You- wait, you mean you-”

“Popped a boner in the middle of my aunt’s hairdressing salon when it was full of _nuns_ and had to hide in the back room for like, an _hour_? _Yes._ ”

There's a moment of stupefied silence where Matt's not sure what's building in his throat, hysterical, hot and almost painful, but then he opens his mouth and starts guffawing. His chest heaves, his belly aches, and he has to brace his other arm on Foggy's shoulder, bury his face in the crook of his elbow and fight for breath. Foggy starts shaking beneath him, racked by giggles that hiss through his teeth, and he grips Matt's shoulder too, so they're locked together, a chuckling damp mass of law student, with only their gasps out of sync.

Eventually the final gale of Matt’s laughter blows itself out, and he raises his head, a few drops of water shaking loose to roll down his nose, his ears, his neck. He doesn't let on, but he can feel Foggy looking, can hear the last whispers of his chuckles fade to nothing.

“What a pair we make, huh?” There's an edge to it, something a bit tart to the words, and Foggy's faux casual voice is much more obvious when he's drunk.

Matt flexes his grip in Foggy’s shirt, listens to his breath hitch. “I was pretty pissed at you. At everything, really, but I thought I hea- I thought you were laughing at me.”

“ _Matty_. Never.”

Matt tugs on Foggy’s shirt, just barely, more a twitch than anything, if he weren’t perfectly in control of his muscles, and Foggy leans in, maybe a couple of inches, and there’s still an arm’s length  between them, but that’s- that’s something. They breath in tandem for a few seconds, a little too deep, until Foggy wets his lips and Matt’s toes curl at the sound.

“I, uh,” Foggy starts, and there it is again, that dark half breath of a laugh, but now, now it doesn’t sound mocking at all, and Matt realises what Foggy’s about to say just before he does, “I sorta laugh when I’m turned on? It’s a nerves thing, I guess.”

“Okay,” Matt says easily. The tip of his index finger slips into the gap between two buttons on Foggy’s shirt when he shifts his grip, and Foggy inches forwards again. “That’s good.”

Foggy laughs again, and Matt’s knees ease apart, and from somewhere much more certain, suddenly much more sure of himself, Foggy adds: “Is it now?” and Matt _yanks_ on his shirt, a cotton and polyester blend that he wouldn’t wear on his worst day but will quite happily rub himself all over to get that laugh again, to get Foggy’s hands in his hair.

(To get Foggy’s hands _anywhere_ )

And Foggy _is_ laughing, just a little, until Matt tilts just right to press their mouths together, sloppy, very damp, but soft and insistent and on and on and on. He’s still a little short of breath from the laughter, but he’s not willing to stop for long enough to pull away, so he sucks in tiny gasps as they readjust, as Foggy’s hands slip down his arms to his waist, warm where the air and water have cooled Matt’s skin. His fingers are still tangled in Foggy’s abomination of a shirt, and the terrible fabric is as much of a distraction as anything can be, so he flicks the first button open. And the second. And the third.

Foggy huffs a laugh into his jaw. “Oh my God, Matt, we can’t, you’re soaking.”

“I disagree,” Matt says, and Foggy runs a hand through his dripping hair and squeezes, sending a lukewarm trickle down the back of his neck.

“The evidence is pretty compelling, counsellor. Hey, don’t make that face-” Matt rearranges his eyebrows, but does not stop pouting “-I’m just saving you from ending up in a Matt-sized wet spot. Um. I’m trying to rephrase but words are not-” a press of lips against Matt’s jaw, and he flicks another button open “-my focus right now.”

Matt tries to press forward on his advantage and get Foggy’s damn shirt off — button ups, why is Anna Nelson so obsessed with sending her son button ups when he prefers T-shirts — but he twists away and presses a towel into Matt’s face. It’s soft and fluffy and Foggy’s clearly used Matt’s favoured detergent but it is yet another layer of fabric between Matt and the erection he can practically taste swelling in Foggy’s pants, so he bundles it onto his head in a rough turban as fast as possible and goes back to making grabby hands.

That’s not Foggy’s turned on laugh.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake-”

“No, no, it’s a good look, very sexy, um,”

“Foggy,” he says, low, a warning.

“Trust me on this, I’m the one with eyes.”

“I _have_ eyes,” he growls, reaching up to tug the damn towel off. Foggy beats him to it, pulls it off gently and starts towelling Matt’s hair dry. To reach, he has to straddle Matt’s hips. Obviously. This is possibly the only thing that stops Matt hurling the towel as far away as possible, but there’s still a line of tension across his shoulders, a hot, tight anger roiling in his belly that he can’t quite explain.

“C’mon, Matt, it’ll only take me a minute to get you dry. I’ll still wanna kiss you after,” Foggy murmurs, and it’s as light as any barbershop patter, but, as he does so often — all the time in class and outside it too — Foggy’s got to the heart of the matter before Matt’s even realised it.

His “Really?” is almost embarrassing, not half as dry and sarky as he meant it to be.

“Sure,” Foggy says, easily. “I can safely vouch that your sex appeal is not predicated on being wet. Hell, Matt,” and he sounds a little softer, as he stops rubbing Matt’s hair and swipes the towel down over Matt’s shoulders in long, lingering strokes, “I wanna kiss you when you miss your mouth eating cereal. Although I guess you did spill milk down yourself, you were damp, whatever, we can experiment in the fullness of time. Right now I just don’t want you to catch a cold and sneeze on my hair when I blow you in the morning.”

“Right,” Matt says, even if he feels cracked open, right down the middle. As if he can see the line where Matt’s split, vulnerable, Foggy pulls the towel down the centre of his chest, then tosses it aside and leans back to shuck off his shirt. Matt doesn’t let on, but he can tell Foggy’s eyes don’t leave him.

Matt reaches up, and pulls him down. Foggy’s warm and heavy and pressing him into the carpet, but Matt can ignore the nylon and the Coke soaked into the fibres for the soft warmth of Foggy’s skin, the scritch of his chest hair. Foggy’s a great kisser, eager and forward and much more in control than Matt imagined - and he’s _imagined._ He uses a hand in Matt’s hair to keep the angle as he wants it, licks into his mouth just as he slides a thigh between Matt’s legs.

Matt would maybe be embarrassed about being so keyed up, restless under his too-tight skin, shuddering at Foggy’s fingers skating across his stomach, but when he gets his hands on Foggy's ass and squeezes, he's rewarded with a shout and a quick, aborted thrust. He hitches his hips in response and Foggy gets the message, starting a slow grind that makes Matt's eyes roll back.

There's little more to it than rutting on a dorm room floor after that, but it's so much more. It's Foggy’s pulse rising and rising, until he starts dropping Matt's name between kisses in time to the beat of his heart. It's Matt panting like he's done a full session at Fogwell’s when Foggy drags a knuckle up the inside seam of his jeans. And again and again, it's Foggy's hand in his hair, blunt nails on his scalp, a line of fire all the way down his spine that makes him arch and keen.

Foggy gets Matt’s fly undone one handed just as he tugs Matt’s hair near the base of his skull to tilt his head up, and between the two sensations, stretched out for Foggy like a martyr, Matt comes in his jeans. He can't even speak a warning, just groans Foggy's name as his dick jerks and twitches under Foggy's hot hand, but that must be okay, somehow, because Foggy hisses out a “Christ, Matty,” like it might be his last breath.

Matt's still juddering through the aftershocks when he hears Foggy's own fly go, the sound of skin on slickened skin as Foggy jerks himself off. Matt has to move fast through the fuzz of orgasm to get his own palm wrapped round Foggy's dick instead, but the begging he gets when he pulls Foggy's wrist away, grip a little tight, is well worth it. “Yes, please, Matt-” He commits the sound of it to memory, just in case, even as he thinks _next time, next time_ , a creeping smile tightening his slack jaw just as Foggy comes all over his chest.

“Oh wow. Oh wow. Wow.” Matt just smirks. “Yeah, yeah, you're hot, everyone knows that, but, uh, you're pretty strong too. We should explore that, cause it was unexpectedly awesome. Although, I guess I should've expected it, now I see the abs up close and personal-” there's a pause, and Matt's waiting for the punchlines, but the there’s Foggy's _tongue_ running up from his navel, licking off his own come, and Matt can't decide if he wants to squirm away or be swallowed whole.

Foggy laughs, that rich half chuckle vibrating against his skin, and grabs the towel to clean off the rest. “Sorry, sorry, I forget how sensitive you are.”

“Yeah, because everyone else is so blasé about _licking_.”

“I wasn't comparing,” Foggy says mildly. “You kinda put the ‘beyond’ in comparisons, dude.”

It takes a second for Matt to parse that, but when he does it's with a beaming smile and a warmth that mixes well with the exhaustion taking over his bones. In fact, the smile widens into a yawn before he can help it. “Bed?”

“Bed,” Foggy agreed, though neither of them move for a second. “Your ridiculous silky bed,” he adds, and that seems to propel him to his feet, forcing Matt to follow. They shuck their jeans and curl up in Matt’s bed without another word, until Foggy’s got his nose at the nape of Matt’s neck and mumbles, “Shit, forgot to rinse, your hair is full of soap.”

“Shower in the morning,” he murmurs back.

“Christ, I'm going to develop a Pavlovian reaction to wet hair,” Foggy mutters and Matt snorts.

“I'll stop showering if you stop laughing,” he throws out, sleep already settling into his voice. Foggy hums as if he's considering it for a second, then shakes his head as he cuddles closer with another half breath of a laugh.

“No deal, Matty. I'm never gonna stop.”

He never does. 


End file.
